There had been a time when Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich were nothing more than passing acquaintances, only really aware of each others' names and the reputations that came with them. They hadn't even had any conversations, not proper ones, unless you count the times that Ian had told Mickey to stop stealing from the Kash and Grab or the times when Ian would hang out with Lip and Mickey a few years back, when the two of them had been something close to friends, talking intoxicated rubbish, as conversations.
Neither of them had ever had the desire to be anything more and so that was that. Besides, Mickey didn't exactly possess the abilities to make and maintain friends and Ian could see no reason great enough to risk getting the shit beaten out of him in an attempt to get chummy.
Of course that had all changed now. They had well and truly passed the line of being just acquaintances and they definitely knew a hell of a lot more than each others' names. And somehow, somewhere between the quick, hard fucks in Mickey's bed or during Ian's breaks at work and the random conversations they had whilst they were drunk or high or a bit of both, somewhere between all of that, the two of them grew comfortable in the presence of one another.
After Mickey's first stay in juvie when Ian managed to get him a job at the Kash and Grab, they soon became accustomed to each other's behaviour. Ian quickly realised that Mickey found it almost impossible to say anything without it sounding like a threat or an insult and that if you got up in his personal space for reasons other than to either fuck him or fight him he'd get crazy pissed. And Mickey got used to Ian asking him questions about algebra or trigonometry or whatever the fuck it was that he couldn't possibly answer and the little comments he made about their sexual exploits when nobody else was around and that cocky smirk he got when Mickey would tell him to 'fuck off'.
The whole thing panicked Mickey, more so than he'd ever care to mention or admit to. He was only supposed to have sex with the guy not pick up on his little habits and he definitely wasn't supposed to find himself liking them.
It panicked him because they were only meant to be fuck buddies, each others' booty calls not fucking friends with benefits, because even he couldn't deny the fact that they were friends, and he had never really had a proper friend, least of all one he could fuck. Hell, in the past he'd only let himself have sex with a guy once in the hope they'd understand it was only a one time thing and so they wouldn't think he was their fucking boyfriend – in his defence Ian had like a degree in how to make Mickey practically scream with pleasure – and so even though there were perks to the whole messed up arrangement i.e. the sex, it was so alien to him. The fact that they had to sneak around made him feel like they were in some sort of gay partnership and they certainly fucking weren't. Not at all.
In retrospect, Mickey kind of thought that that was probably, maybe why things had gone the way they had. Sure, he was scared as fuck about Frank opening his huge fucking mouth which would result in him getting his brains bashed in by his dad and brothers, but it was also an easy way out – and he needed a way out – of a daunting situation he had gotten way too deep into.
So that was his excuse whether or not it made up for what he had said to Gallagher. He imagined it probably didn't and sometimes that sort of bothered him but he pushed those thoughts as far back in his mind as he could. It wasn't like there was anything he could do now he was back in juvie and there was no fucking way in hell he was going to send Gallagher some faggy, romantic letter to apologise or some shit. He was also pretty damn sure he wasn't going to get a visit from him anytime soon so fuck it, he thought, I'll serve my time, get out and pretend like I haven't had his dick up my ass, simple.
Of course in Mickey's life, nothing remained simple for long.